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From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house, it passed ;
O, will it ever, ever ope
The palace gate, at last ?
Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung —
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords :
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.
For should the Moor with sword and lance
At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now
Their progress to withstand ?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid
Five royal crowns to topple down,
As gallant Diaz did ?
Hath Xeres any Pounder now,
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail?
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green
Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe seo
Such heroes brave and bold,
Such valor, faith, and loyalty,
As used to shine of old !

No longer to one battle-cry United Spaniards run, And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son ! From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells, And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells. The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade; . And gold is scant; and Alicante Is sealed by strict blockade ! The loyal fly, and valor falls, Opposed by court intrigue; But treachery and traitors thrive, Upheld by foreign league; While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign — Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain ! Well may he cleanse the rusty key With Afric sand and oil, And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil ! Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep, And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap! Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof, And plant the Crescent yet again Above the Alhambra's roof,

When those from whom St. Jago's name
In chorus once arose
Are shouting faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to “Close!”
Well may he swear his ataghan
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into arabesques
That show no human form -
The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient key
To seek the ancient door!



SAALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roared thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth ?
Yet didst thou ne'er restore my fainting health ? -
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove ?
Nay, didst thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me? –
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee !
Coblentz, May, 1835.

LEAR. A POOR old king, with sorrow for my crown. Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind -For pity, my own tears have made me blind, That I might never see my children’s frown; And may be madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind, So that unkindly speech may sound for kind, Albeit I know not.— I am childish grown — And have not gold to purchase wit withal — I that have once maintained most royal state — A very bankrupt now, that may not call My child, my child — all-beggared save in tears, Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate, Foolish — and blind — and overcome with years !

SONNET TO A SONNET. RARE composition of a poet-knight, Most chivalrous amongst chivalric men, Distinguished for a polished lance and pen In tuneful contest and in tourney-fight; Lustrous in scholarship, in honor bright, Accomplished in all graces current then, Humane as any in historic ken, Brave, handsome, noble, affable, polite; Most courteous to that race become of late So fiercely scornful of all kind advance, Rude, bitter, coarse, implacable in hate To Albion, plotting ever her mischance, — Alas, fair verse! how false and out of date Thy phrase "sweet enemy" applied to Franco !

FALSE POETS AND TRUE. Look how the lark soars upward and is gone Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. So, poets' songs are with us, though they die Obscured and hid by Death's oblivious shroud, And earth inherits the rich melody, Like raining music from the morning cloud. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud, Their voices reach us through the lapse of space The noisy day is deafened by a crowd Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race; But only lark and nightingale forlorn Fill up the silences of night and morn.

nighiale forlons race:

TO — My heart is sick with longing, though I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace As if he slept - forgetting his old speed : For, as in sunshine only we can read The march of minutes on the dial's face, So in the shadows of this lonely place There is no love, and time is dead indeed, But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart, Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies, It seems we only meet to tear apart With aching hands and lingering of eyes. Alas, alas ! that we must learn hours' flight By the same light of love that makes them bright!

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